


The Girl That Casts Her Own Spells

by great_whatsit



Category: Gilda (1946)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_whatsit/pseuds/great_whatsit
Summary: One upon a time, there was a girl named Gilda.
Relationships: Ballin Mundson/Gilda Mundson Farrell, Gilda Mundson Farrell/Other(s), Johnny Farrell/Gilda Mundson Farrell
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Girl That Casts Her Own Spells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liviania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liviania/gifts).



Once upon a time, there was a girl named Constance. Her mamma called her Conny and she loved Conny very much, enough for at least two people. She loved her so much that Conny almost never asked about her daddy.

Conny’s mamma’s name was Diamond. She and Conny lived in a house with Miss Ellen and her other ladies — there was a Celine and a Sapphire; a Chastity, a Pearl, and an Opal (Conny barely remembered Opal, she left when Conny was very young) — and they were Conny’s family. When Conny got old enough to help out around the house, she did the laundry, prepared meals, and made sure the ladies were ready to work each evening. Just before the doors opened, there was a sense of anticipation in the house; Conny love that feeling. She’d rush from room to room, playing her part: tightening a corset here, securing a necklace there; restocking condoms here, refilling a perfume bottle there.

When the doors opened and the men came in, Conny mostly stayed in the kitchen. She knew better than to be in her mother’s room during working hours, and Miss Ellen had told her that staying out of sight was best for everyone. When Conny asked what she meant, Miss Ellen shushed her and shooed her through the door, telling her they’d call if they needed anything.

From the kitchen, Conny could hear the comforting sounds of the house at work. The loud piano, the bawdy laughter, the occasional slaps and shrieks (usually in good humor, but sometimes not). There were smells, too, that became familiar: sweat, cigar smoke, and the dark tang of sex, with a fog of perfume over all of it, softening the edges of the other aromas.

Conny’s body was changing. Pearl and Chastity teased her about it, holding her arms out and running their hands across her breasts, laughing and admiring; telling her how much the men would like Conny when it was time for her to join them on the floor. It made Conny wiggle with anticipation when she imagined what that might feel like. She loved being looked at and touched, and Diamond had talked for years about how much they needed money. When Conny was old enough, everyone would see her the way Pearl and Chastity did — womanly and beautiful and proud — and she and her mamma would have more money than they’d ever dreamed. Conny’s eyes shown when she talked about what it would be like, and her hands were alive, shaping the glamorous future that awaited her. Diamond smiled wanly and hugged her daughter close, feeling the swelling breasts that would soon make it impossible to keep Conny out of sight.

The day she was to be on the floor for the first time, Miss Ellen took Conny into her own room, sat her down on the bed, and told her the story of the life she would have. As she talked, she did Conny’s hair, shaping it into ringlets then pinning it up high, with a coy tendril trailing down the neck below. As she talked, she did Conny’s makeup, highlighting her astonishing cheekbones, carefully applying false eyelashes, coloring her eyelids to call attention to her bright, teasing eyes. As she talked, she dressed Conny, pulling her sleeves down off her shoulders and tightening her corset, using powder to add contours to her already eye-catching bosom. When she was done, she gently turned Conny to face the mirror. Conny’s mouth fell open, and she tugged Miss Ellen into as tight a hug as she could manage without smudging her makeup. “Oh, Miss Ellen! I’m so beautiful!”

Ellen pulled back and smoothed Conny’s hair, giving her a soft smile. “Of course you are, darling. Of course you are!“ She turned away for a moment, reaching into the top drawer of her dresser and emerging with a small bundle. Unwrapping it, she revealed a gold-colored necklace with a delicate pendant hanging from it. Wordlessly, she reached around Conny and draped the necklace across her chest, fastening the chain carefully at the base of her neck.

Conny raised her hand to touch the pendant, silently mouthing the word she read there: “Gilda.”

✪

One upon a time, there was a girl named Gilda. Gilda was the crown jewel of Miss Ellen’s in the Bowery — she was almost too beautiful to be believed. Gilda had a grace and charm that not only made every man fall in love with her, but also convinced a fair few that she was in love with them, as well. Her hair was fire red, her eyes were emerald green, and her body was an entrancing mix of soft and solid, like a fantasy come to life. She was spectacular, and she knew it. Men would throw themselves at her feet, desperate for a simple word, or a glance, or a dance. Gilda would laugh and smile, or caress their faces and kiss the air, pretending to be shocked by their words, and walk away with a look over her shoulder that held nothing but promise.

Every man wanted her, but only the very wealthy could make her their own. The exchange would happen discretely and out of sight, then Miss Ellen would lead a man to Gilda, and Gilda’s face would come to life with excitement, and eagerness, and curiosity — everything the man hoped to see was there, and more. For the time he’d bought, she was devoted and attentive and adoring, and every man in the room burned with envy. Gilda’s gloved hands never left her partner — there were little touches on the shoulder, brushes of the hip, a wonderful, solid weight on the back of the neck when they reached the dance floor. The men who could afford her were trapped between warring desires. Parts of them wanted to spent hours walking the floor by her side, so everyone could see them with Gilda: see her desire, the way she touched them. On the other hand, however, they wanted nothing more than to get her behind a close door — to touch her, to have her, to feel her give in to them. Whether in public or in private, power over this woman — possession of her — was more than worth the price they paid.

When they got her alone, stripped of the layers of finery that separated her from the rest of the world, Gilda was a carefully curated assemblage of all that they had ever wanted. She was proud but pliant; cautious but wanton; hesitant but eager. A woman who was like this only for _them_ , who was alive only in _their_ arms, who reacted this way only to _their_ touch. They came back to see her over, and over, and over again.

Gilda was very good at her job.

✪

Once upon a time, Gilda met a boy named Johnny Farrell. Johnny worked for one of Gilda’s regulars — one of the rich men who paid, several times a month, for the right to tell themselves she was theirs. Johnny drove him to Miss Ellen’s and waited at the bar, watching the man’s hands on Gilda; Gilda’s hands on him. Watching the way she leaned into him, kissed his neck, let him hold her to his side. Imagining what they did when they went upstairs, out of sight. Who was touching who, what Gilda might look like with her head thrown back in ecstasy, the way she might beg to be touched, in the way only he could touch her. Smelling Gilda on the man when his time ended and Gilda gracefully, regretfully brought him back downstairs, delivering him to Johnny with a challenge in her eyes and in the set of her jaw. He needed her so much he wanted to scream, wanted to grab her and hold her and make her his. Instead, he nodded, and said “Goodnight, Miss Gilda.” Then he drove the man home.

Sometimes, Johnny would come back alone. He’d sit at the bar and drink and watch Gilda work the floor, and he’d tell her that he loved her, that he needed her, that he would take her away from this place. Gilda would give her loud, sharp laugh, her hand gentle on his cheek. “Oh, Johnny,” she’d say. “You’re sweet.” Then Miss Ellen would appear and usher him outside, uncompromising but with sympathy in her voice.

Once upon a time, Gilda had sex with Johnny Farrell. She did it to make him stop causing trouble for Miss Ellen, and because he was good looking, in a dark, thuggish sort of way, and she wanted him. Johnny let Gilda do what she wanted: he moved how she told him to move, didn’t touch her without permission, and pleaded with her just as desperately as she thought he might. She let him stay in her bed as she got ready for work; he told her again that he loved her, and that he didn’t want anyone else, and that he would save her from this life. Gilda look at him in the mirror and gave that same, almost cruel laugh. She told him he was sweet, again, like she was speaking to a little boy. “You’ve got twenty minutes, Johnny. You need to leave.” She patted him on the head on her way out.

It only made Johnny worse. He was there every night, either trembling and silent at the bar — waiting while his boss spent rented time with Gilda — or shouting from outside about how Gilda was too good for this life, and how she shouldn’t stoop to this anymore, and how she should be ashamed of what she was doing. Eventually, Miss Ellen had a quiet word with Johnny’s boss. After that, they never saw Johnny again.

✪

Once upon a time, there was a dancer named Gilda. She’d been restless at Miss Ellen’s and, after heartfelt and very costly farewells to her regulars, she lit out for new cities, new stages, new men. She’d stay for up to a year when she found a place that felt right, thrilled to be in the spotlight, wanted but out of reach — untouchable. (She was, of course, very touchable, but only when she said so, and only after arrangements had been made.) Gilda lived well in Miami, and Chicago; in San Francisco and Havana. She was kept by rich men who worshipped her, who touched her gently and wonderingly, who let her dictate her terms, in and out of in bed. The moment they didn’t, she left, taking her furs and her jewels, and leaving heartbreak in her wake. It was a thrilling time for Gilda — on her own at last, sleeping with who she wanted, when she wanted, and leaving any man who bored or disappointed her. She thought she would live this life forever, but she was wrong.

Once upon a time, Gilda met a man named Ballin Mundson. Gilda danced and Ballin watched her, hungry, like a predator biding its time: enjoying the anticipation as much as he would the inevitable kill. His eyes pinned her like a specimen on a board; it made Gilda burn in an unfamiliar way. The house was full, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him; all night, she danced only for him. He invited her to his table for a drink, and he watched her like he wanted to devour her, even as she made her way toward him after the last show. He rose, gave a little bow, and pulled out a chair for her; Gilda smiled and made her eyes bright. She sat, and when he touched her, it seared like ownership. Gilda shivered and turned to look up, her shoulder shifting into his secretly solid body. Ballin gave her a slow, thoughtful smile, and he stroked her arm in an unhurried manner before returning to his seat. They talked for hours, and it felt like a negotiation: Ballin assessing with his questions, and touches, and demands; Gilda confessing and needing and acquiescing. Ballin was rich and frightening, and Ballin wanted her — wanted to _consume_ her. Gilda had never felt more alive.

✪

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Gilda Mundson. She married Ballin the night after they met, a garish diamond on her finger and the rarest mink around her shoulders. She hadn’t slept yet — she didn’t want to. Ballin fucked her like he watched her, all selfish hunger and focus, taking her apart piece by piece. Gilda was so overwhelmed the first time that she cried. Ballin liked to see her cry.

Ballin took Gilda home to Buenos Aires and installed her in his house, with his other things. He filled her wardrobe with finery from Europe and New York, and her dressing table was covered with enormous, jeweled pins, and gold pendants, and diamond hair clips. She was his most valuable possession, and he reminded her of it every day with his words, and his touches, and his dictates. One day, he calmly and clearly told her that if she lied to him or betrayed him, he’d kill her. Gilda nodded, then she took her dress off while Ballin watched, and she lay down on his bed, waiting. Ballin watched her for a long while. Gilda tried to be still under his weighty, ravenous examination, but she could hear her blood rushing in her ears, could see the rapid beating of her heart in the rhythmic trembles of her breasts. Sometimes, when she was like this, compelled by his gaze, Ballin would tell her what to do. He’d stand at the foot of the bed and hold her eyes, telling her where and when to touch herself; what sounds she was allowed to make and which were forbidden.

It had been a long, long time since Gilda had truly lost herself in front of a man, but her husband took her control away as if it had never existed at all. It terrified and thrilled her; the cruel triumph that would flit across his face when she cried, or screamed, or begged made her burn with need. Ballin was dangerous and frightening and she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone. Sometimes, alone, she’d shake just thinking about Ballin, how he looked at her, and she’d use her fingers to bring herself off, fast and rough, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. She felt like she’d lost touch with reality, locked up, but there was nothing the outside world could offer that made her want to be anywhere else. She had been born the night she met Ballin. He was her present and her future; she had no past at all.

Once upon a time, Gilda Mundson’s husband brought the past right into her bedroom. “Gilda,” he said, “This is Johnny Farrell.”

Gilda could feel the thrill of her connection to Ballin fray the moment she saw Johnny. It was as if his mere presence disrupted the fine balance that had bound her to her husband; had compelled her to give herself to him — to ask him to take her. Johnny was sand in the gears, he was a run in the stocking, a slick spot on the dance floor. Gilda couldn’t think, so did what she always did around men: she performed. Her charm was an attack on Johnny, her smile a slap across his face. She shaped her mouth just so, and she widened her eyes to take him in, and she hated him to the very bottom of her soul.

Johnny distracted Ballin, took him away from her. Gilda was alone. She was reckless and foolish and lost, so desperate to regain Ballin’s attention that she didn’t care what form it took. Even his anger was better than nothing, so she went out on her own, flirted shamelessly at the club, kissed men she didn’t know. Kissed Johnny, again, right in Ballin’s house. Always, her thoughts were of Ballin: hoping he would see her, that he would think of her. Need her again. A sharp thrill ran through her on the days he noticed she’d been out, when he raged at her for coming home late. She’d needle him, just a little, to keep his attention from slipping away, and she’d try all the tricks she knew to seduce him back to the bedroom. There were nights when she felt she had him, when she was truly his once more. When he’d fuck her ruthlessly, hissing dark words in her ear as she cried out, frantic, giving herself to him again, and again, and again.

And then Ballin was gone.

✪

One upon a time, there was a woman named Gilda Mundson Farrell. She hated her husband in her every waking moment, and when she slept she dreamed of killing him. She despised him for his fear and his shame, for is inability to tell even himself the truth about what he was doing. She hated herself for performing for him, for wanting to ease past the sloppy, childish armor he had erected against her; for the obvious, treacherous lies she used to try to get at him, to make him break. What made it all — the manipulation, the captivity, the threats — worse. was that it was so close to what she’d had with Ballin; so close to what she needed to fill the terrible void he’d left behind. But Johnny wasn’t Ballin. Johnny wasn’t dangerous, Johnny wasn’t cold, and Johnny wasn’t powerful. Johnny was weak and pathetic, and if Gilda hadn’t hated him so much, she might have pitied him.

When she finally broke free of Johnny, she returned to the club’s stage one last time. It felt like a farewell to Ballin — to perform in his club, to put herself on display for men who would never have her the way Ballin had. To put sex on the stage, right there in front of them all, and to see Johnny shake with his need for her. She had long ago learned that he told himself the trembling was from the disgust he was feeling, but Gilda knew men — knew Johnny — well enough to know the real reason for the fury in his eyes and the tremors in his hands. Even as he slapped her, she could see him crumbling. She could see it all coming down.

Calm, peaceful months passed. Ballin was long gone, and Johnny had quietly retreated from the game he’d been playing with her life. There was no reason for Gilda to stay in Buenos Aires. She would go back to the States, she decided, and she’d dance — a triumphant return to the stages she’d once so loved. It made her smile again to imagine being back there, in a world where she belonged, where everything was familiar. Up in the lights, with all of those eyes upon her. Lost in the memories, she told Johnny he could come with her. Johnny who had lost all his bluster, Johnny who was again the hopeful, devoted boy she’d met so long ago. Johnny who was predicable and familiar. He would do for now.

Then Ballin appeared, and everything else faded away. She felt a spike of fear tear through her body, alongside the vicious need that Ballin’s power never failed to awaken in her. She wanted to weep. She wanted to throw herself at him, to beg him to take her back, or even just to take her. Even as he pointed a gun at her, Gilda felt her breath coming in short gasps, her body desperate for something she’d thought she would never have again. She screamed when he died, then screamed again. After that, she drifted.

✪

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Gilda and a man named Johnny. They didn’t live happily ever after, not even close. But they were both so very tired, and what they had was plenty good enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [_Spellcaster_](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/152952/spellcaster), by Jeannine Hall Gailey.
> 
> Happy Yuletide, Liviania! Thank you for giving me an excuse to obsess over this wonderful movie for a while.


End file.
